Revenger by Rory Clements

view of his diminishing—but still extraordinarily well-sized—tumescence. Forman waved to her cheerily and she met his eye with an immodest gaze. She would make a pleasant repast one day soon. He looked away from her and his eyes turned down to the street below, where he saw a neatly coiffed head of fair, wavy hair that he recognized instantly. “God’s teeth, it’s the She-wolf’s daughter!” he said. “And she has a blackamoor with her. What’s she doing here? Get yourself dressed, Mistress Noke.”
    Hurriedly grabbing a shirt and breeches, he stumbled downstairs to the door, fastening hooks and ties as he went. As he opened the door with a disheveled flourish, she swept past him into his antechamber. She stood for a moment looking about her. Lady Penelope Rich. The most beautiful young woman in England; wife to the fabulously wealthy Robert, third Lord Rich; sister to the great Earl of Essex; daughter to Lettice Knollys; stepdaughter to the great Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester; believed by many to be great-granddaughter to Henry VIII by Anne Boleyn’s sister Mary.
    “Well, Dr. Forman,” she said at last. “I seem to have found you quite déshabillé , if not to say in flagrante delicto. ”
    He bowed low to her, then looked nervously at her servant. “A thousand pardons, my lady. I was merely couching a hogshead away from the afternoon sun. I had not expected you.”
    “Couching a hogshead, Dr. Forman?”
    “A little afternoon sleep, my lady.”
    “Ah. Well, no, of course you were not expecting me, for that would have spoiled the surprise. I wished to see how you lived, Dr. Forman. And I now know. I have certain friends, ladies of breeding, who speak very highly of your … prowess.”
    “My lady?”
    “But that is not why I am here, Dr. Forman. I am here because I wish you to prepare a chart for me.”
    “Ah, charts, my lady,” Forman said warily in his deep Wiltshire drawl. “Charts are dangerous things. Perhaps some refreshment would be in order while we discuss the matter.” He clapped his hands. “Mistress Noke, would you come, please. We have an honored guest.”
    Annis Noke appeared at the bottom of the stairs, took one look at Penelope Rich, and curtsied as low as a penitent at a shrine.
    “A flagon of our finest claret, please, Mistress Noke—and some ale for the manservant.”
    Forman led Penelope upstairs to his chambers and through to the hall where he did his work. It was a chaos of books and papers, charts and instruments, glass vials and powders—all the strange clutter of an alchemist and astrologer. “My humble hall, my lady. Please accommodate yourself on the settle. You are most welcome. Most welcome, indeed. Shall I fetch cushions?”
    Penelope Rich did not sit down. “So this is where you do your work, Dr. Forman. This is where you cast your spells.” Her gaze lighted on a pentacle drawn on parchment and pinned to the wall above a coffer.
    “My lady, there is no witchcraft here. I deal only in the ancient and honorable sciences of astrology and alchemy.”
    “And what, pray, are you working on at the present time?”
    “A cure for the plague. Soon there will be much call for it and it will make my fortune. As well as saving many good Christian lives, of course.”
    “And charts?”
    “I am wary of charts, my lady. No good tends to come of charts.”
    “But I know that you make astrological charts, Dr. Forman. And I am certain that you are just the man to make one for me.”
    He bowed. No one denied the She-wolf’s daughter. “As you wish, my lady. I will, of course, require a few details. Let me make a few notes, if I may.” Among the rubble of books and papers, he found a quill, which he proceeded to sharpen. Then he scrabbled around until he found an inkhorn. At last he dipped the quill tip into the ink and smiled ingratiatingly at his aristocratic visitor.
    “Is it a new-born babe, my lady? Might I have the birth date?”
    “The birth date was September